Monday, March 31, 2014

My best friend’s birthday was on Saturday.
Another close friend’s was the Saturday before that. My dad’s is later this
week. And so on. Most of the people I’ve ever fiercely loved have been Aries.

Having a decent working knowledge of
astrology has made my life easier. I don’t put stock into daily horoscopes, but
do believe the month and day we were born says a lot about our big-picture
personalities and values. If I spend more than about an hour with someone I’ve
just met, I ask when his or her birthday is, not because I’m promising to pay
tribute to it but because it gives me a better sense of who I’m dealing with
and how much longevity we have.

As part of a pickup line, an Aries once told
me (a Libra) that Libras and Aries go well together. (Update: we did not.
He has all of the bad Aries attributes, in addition to the bad attributes of
many other zodiac signs.) Someone’s birthday falling under a certain sun sign doesn’t
tell you the whole story (I’ve known flighty Virgos, codependent Aquarians, passive
Leos) – you need to track down that person’s moon and rising signs to get the full
scoop.

Sun signs still mean something. It’s no coincidence
that those I gravitate toward and mesh the strongest with fall under the same 3
or 4 signs; or that those I clash the ugliest with fall under the same 1 or 2
signs. I entered my birthday (month, day, and nothing more - for example, if
your birthday is March 31st,type in “March 31 Birthday Astrology”)
into Google, clicked on the first search result, and read a profile of people born
on that day. All I need to do the next time anyone asks me to describe myself
is hand over a print-out of what I pulled up. Or send the link.

Monday, March 24, 2014

As of two nights ago, I keep my toilet lid down whenever
the best seat in the house is not in use. All because of a sentence I read
about a New Yorker who saw a rat swim up and crawl out of his.

Giving blood, public speeches, ultimatums - I have
no qualms. But the sight of an indoor rodent will break me. I don’t mind them
in meadows or dungeons, as these are places where they belong. They have no
business roaming, unchaperoned, through buildings with mailing addresses.

I was 22 when I first saw one. I spit my gum into an
uncovered trash can in my law school building and a mouse (a stocky whippersnapper),
that had just been hit, jumped up like it wanted to fight me. The next time, I
sat in a study carrel (in the same building) and felt something crash into my
shoe. I saw another one in the first NYC apartment I rented. My super and I
have gone around my current apartment to seal any conceivable opening a mouse
could squeeze through. I hadn’t thought about the toilet.

In the weeks after I saw that mouse in my former
living quarters, I couldn’t think or talk about anything else (having to read a
proposal for work entitled “The Long Tail” didn’t help). Locals laughed and
rolled their eyes. “What is it about
mice you hate so much?” one realty broker asked. Another said the mice wouldn’t
hurt me.

I knew a Brooklynite who walked in on a mouse
bobbing in her bowl of oatmeal. I know of an Upper West Sider who has woken up
to find mice in bed with him. Others who have spotted one shrug their
shoulders, set up traps, continue to whip up fragrant 3-course meals as if
nothing had happened. They’re so blasé, it’s commendable. And I have no
interest in emulating their composure.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Someone I later mentioned this footage to
said, “Well, of course. How could a person passing by not have reacted like
that?” Which is fantastically naive. Put in the same proximate position, many
(if not most) laypeople wouldn’t have had the impulse to help. They would have
ran, not walked, in the opposite direction, away from the smoke, flames, and ruins.

If I had walked past the explosion, I think
I would have responded at least somewhat charitably. But here’s something I
learned long ago, something useful: hypotheticals mean nothing. You never know
how you’ll react in any situation until you actually find yourself in it.

An hour earlier, the faceless and selfless
voice in the video could have had a staunch reputation as a self-involved
asshole.

The next time this happens, the person
who’s reading this, saying “I was a lifeguard in high school and just returned from
a mission trip in Honduras. I’d throw down my knapsack and get to work, rescuing
trapped passengers from their cars,” could be the first bystander pushing everyone
aside to more quickly head out of harm’s way and let the professionals take
care of it.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Someone I recently hung out with brought up
knitting. That she knows how to do it.

It reminded me of a former teenage cashier of mine.
After I took her to lunch one afternoon, she said she’d knit me a replica of
the beanie she often wore on her head. “I’ll take it,” I assured her. While
ringing me up a few weeks later, she asked what color I’d like. I gave her a
range – carnation pink, lavender, beige, whatever else popped in my head at the
time. Two years have passed, and where in
the hell is my hat?

It reminded me that I would like to knit hats,
gloves, and baby booties on my own. I applaud those who absent-mindedly knit on
the subway, during conference calls, while listening to NPR. If I feel relaxed
just watching someone knit, how much more relaxing could it be to do it myself?

I’ve never had a knack for anything related to sewing.
If it hadn’t been for the cooking unit, I would have failed my mandatory junior
high Home Ec classes.

Awhile back, I heard about a local yarn store’s
knitting classes. It offered one for adults and one for kids between the ages
of 7 and 12. My email to them hinted that I’d prefer placement in the
children’s program (though even that was iffy; those 7-year-olds would sew
circles around me). The person who emailed me back clearly assumed I was
kidding.

The other day, I read an essay maintaining there are
only two human motivators: desire and fear. The smallest and biggest decisions
we make are based on one or the other. When it comes to knitting, I have both
desire and fear, with the fear coming out slightly ahead.

I have many other talents I’m proud of (most of
which are fueled purely by desire): keeping secrets from people I don’t trust; bringing
seemingly inkless ballpoint pens back to life; scoring mint-condition Brooks
Brothers shirts for $10; diagnosing (and then neutralizing) any sociopaths in
my midst. There’s also my abnormally superb peripheral vision. I could go on, but won't.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Down at the office the week before last, I wondered
about an annual meeting that tends to take place in early February. One that I
begin dreading the first week of January.

This year, by the third week of February, there were
no signs of it. I picked up my straight-out-of-1989 desk phone (which has no
caller ID; I’m petrified every time it rings) and called a co-worker who’s usually
somewhat involved with the meeting’s coordination.

“Just out of curiosity, isn’t this normally the
month for…”

“Wow, you’re right, thanks for the reminder. I’ll
start routing the emails about it tomorrow.”

“THIS PHONE CALL NEVER HAPPENED, THIS PHONE CALL NEVER
HAPPENED, THIS PHONE CALL NEVER HAPPENED!”

Too late, the meeting got underway less than 48
hours later. With regard to impulsive speak-ups like these, I’m a veteran, welcome to my
war. I’m the most talkative introvert I know. Wearing a muzzle wouldn’t be the
worst tactical approach.

Conveniently enough, my dentist recently prescribed
and issued me a customized nightguard, to control my teeth grinding and
clenching routine. It is virtually impossible to speak clearly while it’s in.
So now it doubles as a dayguard. While on the job, I tend to forget it’s in unless someone says something
that absolutely necessitates a response. This lightweight powerhouse has already paid
for itself.

The less I talk, the better I plan. The less I talk,
the more I move. The less I talk, the more some of what I’ve heard finally
makes sense. The less I talk, the more likely I am to gaze out my window and
catch the final seconds of another dazzling sunset over the 30 Rock building,
the kind that no amateur photographer can faithfully capture.